Johnlock Roulette
by ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: Five times John spun the wheel, and one time he came out a winner.


**Johnlock Roulette**

 _Five times John spun the wheel, and one time he came out a winner._

 **1\. Roulette**

The spinning of the wheel echoed the spinning of John's thoughts as he watched Sherlock flirt with the croupier. He was a good actor. But was he this good? Or was he actually interested in the man? And why should John care, either way? It was for a case, right? And even if it wasn't for a case, John had no claim on Sherlock. Did he? Perhaps more to the point, did he want to?

It was after midnight by the time they stepped out of the Grosvenor Casino onto Maid Marian Way. Too late to catch a train back to London. And every hotel in Nottingham seemed to be booked up with tourists in town for the annual Robin Hood Pageant.

"What on earth is a Robin Hood Pageant?" Sherlock demanded.

"You know, Robin Hood and the Merry Men of Sherwood Forest." At his companion's blank look, John continued, "Prince of Thieves? Men in Tights? No? Everyone knows Robin Hood."

"I must have deleted it."

Unfortunately, thousands of others had not deleted the existence of Robin Hood, and were now stretching the city's lodging capacity to its limits. After several fruitless attempts, though, they finally found a vacancy at The Walton Hotel.

"I'm afraid that our Bridal Suite is all that we have left for tonight, but I'm sure you'll find it comfortable."

John shuffled through several possible responses before settling on "Thank you," and accepting the key.

The door to number 19 opened into a lounge area with two comfy armchairs and a table. To one side there was an en suite bathroom with a huge tub, and to the other there were four steps leading up to a sleeping area with a king-sized canopy bed.

Sherlock immediately sprawled across one of the armchairs, and John sat opposite him.

"So, how did you know the croupier was our murder suspect's accomplice?"

"I caught him top hatting."

"Top hatting?"

"Dropping extra chips on winning bets placed by the man we'd tailed to the casino."

"Oh, that'll make a good title for my next blog entry. Top Hatting and Tails."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John thought he could detect a slight twitch at the corners of his lips.

John grinned, and then suppressed a yawn. He glanced toward the inviting bed. _This doesn't have to be awkward,_ he told himself. _Just bite the bullet._

"I'm knackered. Are you ready to turn in? It's a big bed, and I don't mind sharing."

"As I'm sure you're aware, John, I find the amount of sleep you require to be tedious and unnecessary. I'm not tired."

"Suit yourself."

 _You always do_ , John added silently.

 **2\. Russian Roulette**

"Three men, all apparent suicides. But the fact that each one used a revolver to shoot himself in the head within the past week was too much of a coincidence for even Lestrade to miss. We have a case, John!"

It didn't take long for Sherlock to work out that the victims had all been affiliated with the University of London. Further investigation revealed that each had recently been in contact with somebody called Don Bulling, though no one by that name could be located in London, or anywhere else in England. Sherlock was delighted.

Sherlock was even more gleeful on their return train from Oxford. "As I thought — this game of Russian roulette is a twisted initiation rite into an even more twisted version of the Bullingdon Club."

"Because fucking a dead pig wasn't twisted enough?"

A woman across the aisle placed her hands over her son's ears and glared at them. John was momentarily chagrinned, but when he caught Sherlock's eye, he couldn't suppress a little snort of laughter. Soon the two of them were giggling with a complete lack of decorum.

The woman's indignant expression only fueled their mirth. She grabbed her son's hand and stalked away, possibly in search of less objectionable traveling companions, or possibly in search of the conductor.

"Stop, stop," John gasped. "We're going to get thrown off the train."

"Just remember to roll when you hit the ground."

…

How had their playful banter led to this?

Sherlock, having deduced that "Don Bulling" must be watching the games of Russian roulette, was posing as a would-be initiate in order to draw out their quarry. John had taken down the young woman _(surprise!)_ and was now using her vantage point to observe in horror as his best friend casually spun the cylinder of a revolver and placed the gun to his head. It was the pills and the cabbie all over again, but this time there was no one for John to shoot.

John was too far away for Sherlock to see or hear him. Keeping one eye glued to the woman's telescope, he fumbled for his phone. Just as he placed the call, Sherlock pulled the trigger.

There was no sound of distant gunfire. No spray of blood. Sherlock's hand dropped, and he traded the revolver for his phone.

"John."

"You bloody idiot! What the hell were you thinking?"

"It's all right. I palmed the bullet. Sleight of hand. It's just a —"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! I swear to god, Sherlock, if you say it was just a magic trick I'll murder you myself. Do you have any idea what you just put me through?"

John watched, chest heaving, as a series of emotions flitted across Sherlock's face — shock, confusion, dawning awareness, regret. He could see the moment Sherlock recognised the parallels between this situation, their first case together, and what John had believed for two years to have been their last.

Sherlock's voice, when he spoke, was uncharacteristically gentle. "John, I'm sorry. I was never in any danger, but I realise you didn't know that, and I'm truly sorry."

John's shoulders slumped. "Just don't do that to me again, okay?"

"I won't."

 **3\. Chat Roulette**

"According to Wikipedia, ChatRoulette is an online chat website that pairs random people from around the world for webcam-based conversations. It was created by Andrey Ternovsky, a 17-year-old high school student in Moscow."

"That's it! John, you're brilliant!"

John froze in shock at the sudden reversal of their roles. Wasn't he the one who was supposed to call Sherlock "brilliant"? Generally, the best he could hope for in return was to be considered less of an idiot than most. Before he could summon up an appropriate response, Sherlock continued:

"Mycroft is going to choke on his umbrella when I tell him that you figured out the key to a case that's been baffling his anti-terrorism minions for months! Oh, this is better than Christmas!"

Sherlock grabbed John's face in his oversized hands, planted a quick kiss on his lips, and swirled out of the flat. John could hear the clatter of his feet on the stairs, followed by the slam of the front door. Then silence.

John sat for a long time, stunned.

Had Sherlock really kissed him? Or did he just imagine it? Did Sherlock actually call John "brilliant" and then kiss him on the lips? It seemed more likely that he was hallucinating.

John felt for his pulse. Elevated. From a kiss? Or from some psychotropic drug that Sherlock had slipped into his tea? It wouldn't be the first time…

John's fingers rose, unbidden, to his mouth. Could he feel the ghost of Sherlock's lips against his? With a rush of shame, John realised that he was acting like an infatuated schoolgirl. "This is ridiculous!" he said aloud.

With a shake of the head, John brought his possibly-tainted tea to the kitchen, poured it down the drain, and made himself a fresh cup. Then he returned to his chair, where he sat, and stared into space, and resolutely refused to think about what may or may not have happened with his baffling flatmate.

 **4\. Dirty Roulette**

"You ever hear of DirtyRoulette?"

"Is that like ChatRoulette?"

"Yeah, minus the clothes. You could up your status to Six Continents Watson in one night."

John finished off his pint as his old army buddies slapped him on the back and guffawed. He laughed along, but his heart wasn't in it.

John wasn't interested in seeing random strangers naked. He certainly didn't get off on the thought of wanking in front of his laptop while some anonymous voyeur watched. That had never been his thing.

What was more worrisome, though, was that John couldn't even muster any enthusiasm for pulling women in pubs anymore. Or for going out on the "No — I promise — this one really is straight!" dates that Harry kept trying to set him up on. Or for considering any sort of romantic or sexual relationship at all, honestly.

His mind kept returning, inexorably, to Sherlock. And there was the rub. _No pun intended!_ he yelled at himself. He would _not_ allow himself to imagine rubbing any part of his anatomy against any part of his best friend's body, or vice versa. He would not.

John was going to need another pint.

 **5\. Boys Roulette**

Why was there gay porn on John's laptop? The last thing he'd done before going to bed had been to update his blog. He had most decidedly _not_ clicked on . And yet, as soon as he'd opened his laptop this morning, there they were, in all their naked glory.

Sherlock had deduced his password again, of course.

But why gay porn? Was he on this website for recreational purposes? Mr. I'm-Married-To-My-Work getting a little something on the side? John's mind nearly short-circuited at the thought.

And why had Sherlock left the window open for John to find? Was he trying to send some sort of coded message? Or a subliminal one? Unlike the naked men on his laptop, John's brain was offline.

Sherlock sauntered in and answered John's unasked question. "It's for a case, obviously."

"And why is it on _my_ laptop?"

"Yours was closer."

Right.

"What case, then?"

"Something trifling that Mycroft begged me to look into. Someone hacked in and got footage of two Members of Parliament in half a dozen compromising positions together. Mycroft wants to avoid a scandal."

"You wouldn't think that'd be much of a scandal, these days."

"Says the man who feels the need to repeat the phrase 'I'm not gay' ad nauseam."

"Because I'm not," John said on autopilot. Then added, to himself, _which doesn't mean I'm entirely straight, either…_

"Well, in this case, both of them are supposedly happily married. To women." Sherlock paused, then added, with a touch of snark that surprised John, "Who don't happen to be international assassins."

Even after all this time, it still hurt, the way he had allowed himself to be duped. John couldn't quite suppress the flash of pain that crossed his face, and Sherlock — completely failing to show the lack of empathy one would expect from a self-proclaimed sociopath — was instantly contrite.

"John, please delete that last bit. I'm sorry for bringing up Mary. I don't know why I did."

He looked genuinely confused, which John found disconcerting. They stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable minute. The sound of Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs was a welcome distraction.

 **+1. Roulette of the Heart**

John is dreaming.

There's an enormous roulette wheel, spinning, spinning, the alternating red and black spaces flashing by — _gay, not gay, gay, not gay, gay, not gay…_ The ball goes around and around, until it lands decisively in the single green space marked _Sherlock._

John wakes up hard.

There's a figure standing at the foot of his bed, just visible in the semi-darkness, but he feels no alarm. There's only one person it could be. And the fact that this is precisely the man John wants it to be brings a smile of welcome to his face. He pats the bed in invitation.

Sherlock walks over and sits down facing John, one long leg tucked up against his chest, the other trailing off the edge of the bed. There's something tentative in his manner that breaks John's heart.

John places his hand, palm up, on the duvet, thumb just brushing Sherlock's bony ankle. Sherlock's eyes flicker down to John's hand, then up to his face. Whatever he sees there must allow him to deduce the truth, because a smile blooms across his own face. He covers John's small hand with his larger one.

For a while there's just breathing, and hand-holding, and the slow glide of Sherlock's thumb against the sensitive skin on the inside of John's wrist. Finally, John breaks the silence.

"Do we need to talk about this?"

"As you know, discussion of sentiment is not really my area."

"But this? Us?" John's gesture includes the two of them and the bed on which they're sitting. "Is this your area?"

"I'd like it to be."

The naked honesty in Sherlock's tone emboldens John. He scoots out from under the duvet and pulls Sherlock down to lie beside him. His best friend is in his bed, and he knows where this is heading, and John's not freaking out at all.

Their first kiss (or maybe their second — John makes a mental note to ask Sherlock about that later) is soft and warm and surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock makes a pleased hum low in his throat that sounds almost like a purr. John brings a hand up and lays it across his cheek.

"I'm glad we made it here."

"Yes."

There's more kissing, then, of lips and throats, chests and abdomens, thighs and what lies between them. There are quiet murmurings, and breathy giggles, and startled gasps of pleasure. And through it all there is a sense of rightness.

There are no more games. The wheel has stopped, and they are both winners.

 **End Notes:** Reviews make me smile. :)


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